John Benson has got a tough job, but somebody has gotta do it. The dirt and grime under his fingernails compliments the few strands of gray hair visible among a sea of blackness that is his overgrown beard. His wild mane extends from the bottom of his burgundy hat that reads: "Work Horse." He wears a matching burgundy t-shirt, black boots, and faded black jeans with a small hole on the right knee. He is used to traveling by bus from state to state, searching through dumpsters for one thing and one thing only--used vegetable oil. Without it, he would not be able to run his moving music venue, a retired 1979 AC Transit bus.

Two buses and over two hundred shows later, John Benson's used, do-it-yourself, veggie-oil-based set of wheels serves as a space for people of all ages to rock out to music and howl at the moon like wild beasts in the night. Not only does this space serve as a spot for music, but it also hosts dinner parties, movie nights, and art shows. Though the future of the bus is unknown, behind the beer guzzling and crowd surfing there is something more. There lies a community of individuals celebrating music, art, cooperativeness, and each other. 



"It's kind of my goal to live my life as an eccentric millionaire, but it's hard without any money at all," Benson says jokingly. "Especially since these buses are a financial black hole." Benson recently returned from a trip to Tijuana, where he was looking for a replacement window for his behemoth of a ride. The trip proved unsuccessful, and his monstrous vehicle is currently out of commission.

Right now, the bus, also known as the "Larry Bus," sits in front of a house in South Berkeley. Kloot, Benson's friend's dog, lies lazily on the bus' carpeted floor--she is in charge while no one is around. Because of the broken front window, it is illegal to park or drive the bus anywhere in the city. "If the cops really wanted to mess with us during a show, they could have the bus impounded for that reason," he says. Broken bus windows are nothing new to Benson. He says that, for some reason, the bus tends to trigger a primitive brain response making some people want to "throw rock at big thing." No sticks or stones were to blame this time though-- a friend backed his truck into the windshield. "He felt kinda bad about it," says Benson, as he maneuvers his charcoal-colored Nissan truck down Telegraph Avenue. He stops the truck outside of an art store called Rock Paper Scissors, and makes his way toward Mama Buzz Café. It was beside the café that the original bus had its first "home" show. He casually steps inside and orders a bacon and cheese sandwich from a young waiter. After receiving his food, he takes a seat outside on a gray foldout chair. Though he looks exhausted, his light-blue eyes beam with a child-like interest in life. He reflects on the old days of the bus and how it all started. 



The original bus, which was known as "The Big White Bus," fell into Benson's lap when he needed a vehicle large enough to travel to Ohio and gather his father's belongings after he passed away. With the large vehicle came an idea. He and some friends decided to tour the United States in the bus, picking up curious bystanders, and showcasing bands willing to play. Instead of bringing musicians to a venue--they would bring the venue to the musicians.

Two weeks after Benson purchased the bus, he dropped $300 to turn it into a recycled veggie-oil-running beast, a DeLorean of sorts that would make even the Doc go gaga. With that, the bus hit the road. What they thought was a one-time thing gained unexpected momentum.

In the summer of 2006, on his 38th birthday, Benson threw the first bus show in the Bay Area. He pulled a few strings with the then-owner of Mamma Buzz Café and the show went on. It was a success. "I was under the impression that people wouldn't be willing to go into a bus to see a show," he says. "I thought it would be claustrophobic, sweaty, and really kind of annoying. And I'm right, it is all of those things, but at the same time people are willing to do it." One show turned into multiple shows, but soon, its success became a problem for the café. They eventually got tired of the bus' shows, and it had to be moved. The bus also became a problem for the boys in blue, who consistently told Benson to relocate the bus or ordered people in attendance to leave. Out of necessity, the bus became a moving venue. "Some people freaked out when I drove the bus, but most people didn't even notice," he says with a laugh. The show continued for several years, until tragedy struck. In the spring of 2009, the Big White Bus met a dreadful end in Detroit. But several months afterward, Benson purchased a new bus. Though he had intended to use the new bus for parts, he ended up using it as a replacement vehicle: the Larry Bus.

On a Friday night, the Larry Bus comes to life. Teens and adults linger inside and outside the venue, which is forty-feet long and fourteen-feet wide. They choose their weapon: Miller High Life, King Cobra, Bud Light--most of which are clothed in brown bags. Behind the front door, bus regulars talk amongst one another. Christmas lights and other miscellaneous objects hang from the bus' walls. One chandelier light dangles in the center of the bus, while another bright light rests towards the back. One couch and several seats line the inside. There is no doorman and no annoying security guards or bartenders serving watered-down drinks. The bus is like a boy's clubhouse.

The music commences and the speaking subsides. A six-foot-plus, gargantuan-of-a-man screams un-melodically to fast-paced techno-like music coming from a PA system running off the bus' battery. The audience does not seem to mind the performer, who stands on a makeshift plywood stage wearing nothing but a crochet blouse, a black pair of women's underwear, and no shoes. The towering musician hops on and off the stage, onto the carpeted floor. The hyperactive movements of the performer do nothing to smear the red lipstick on his lips. He has flowing black hair and woman's breasts. As the first act steps off stage some people sit patiently on the bus floor as they wait for the next performer. Others step outside to continue conversations and smoke cigarettes.

Two young promoters, Marshall Brooks and Dylan Reznick, stand inside the music venue. They bask in the glory of the event. They have known each other for years and have thrown over one hundred bus shows combined. There is no authority present, but they both seem to take on roles separate from the crowd. In between starting the circle pit inside the bus' tiny space, Reznick keeps to the front of the stage. When the sound from the PA system fails, he instinctively jumps to the speakers, tweaks several knobs, and makes sure the band is heard. Another set is over. The crowd roars in applause. His job is complete. Brooks delegates the order of the performers and helps break down equipment for the next band to hit the stage. They are a team. "Venues in the Bay Area are really inconsistent. If you want to do any underground shows there are very few all-age places," says 22-year-old Reznick. "In San Francisco there's like none," says Brooks, finishing Reznick's thought. They acknowledge Oakland's underground music scene, explaining that some people move into "shitty" houses in order to avoid noise complaints, while others split the rent on warehouses and use them as open forums for musicians and crowds to let loose.

Damon Johnson, who prefers not to use his real name, owns an underground music venue in Oakland. Unlike Benson's, his venue is not all-ages and operates solely on a word-of-mouth basis. Show-goers cannot waltz into Johnson's warehouse free of charge like they can on Benson's bus; they have to pay $5, which is still a fraction of what it costs to get into most venues. In Johnson's opinion, operating a word-of-mouth venue keeps people who want to listen to music and have a good time in, while weeding out those who are disrespectful and destructive to the venue. "It's good to have people in a place where they can be free," says 36-year-old Johnson, who has operated the music venue with several others for six years. "We're not bothered by The City and we're completely self-sufficient. It's just an open space."

Underground venues like Johnson's get shut down often, although Brooks says there is never a shortage of house shows in Oakland. Over the last few years, however, there were very few places in Oakland where bands could book shows for over a six-month period of time, Reznick says. "We started doing every single show on the bus." Brooks chimes in almost immediately. "We parked [the bus] wherever," he says before cracking open another MGD. We just had to find a place where the cops wouldn't come."

Reznick and other regulars appreciate the work Benson put in to keeping the party going. "[Benson's] life is about putting together shit like this," says Reznick, as he plays with his purple septum nose-ring. George Chen, a bus regular who has been to over fifty shows, nods his head and says Benson is into community building and the bus is an extension of that. "It's almost like a philosophy for him to give people the opportunity to have an experience that is outside the norm," says Chen, who has performed on the bus with bands such as Vholtz, K.I.T., Chen Santa Maria, and Grey Daturas.

Benson wants to share even more of that good ol' community love in ways other than providing an open space for performers. The huge bus falls a few feet short of being an "official" bus. It is actually considered an RV, meaning that no special license is required to operate the vehicle and drinking behind the driver's seat is all good. But Benson wants more people to take action and learn how to operate the bus. Brooks and Reznick know Benson's willingness to teach anyone how to drive it, but they are afraid of the responsibility attached to moving the massive piece of equipment. Most people feel the same way, leaving only a handful of drivers daring enough to take the party with them when Benson cannot.

The bus rocks back and forth as the Numerators, a band from Texas, perform their set. The lead vocalist throws himself into the audience, causing a free-for-all push pit. After several songs, the Numerators finish their set and start packing up. Brooks and Reznick gaze outside the bus' window. They freeze like deer caught in headlights. "Is that a cop?" Brooks says quickly to Reznick. "I don't know," Reznick answers almost hesitantly. A man in blue uniform walks confusedly amongst the crowd outside the bus. He is a police officer. He does not cite the drinkers outside the bus, but he wants everyone to leave or get inside the vehicle. Some stumble away, others move inside. When the cop leaves, Marissa Magic, lead vocalist of band Awesomes, takes a seat on the bus floor. She chops it up with her band mate, who has red hair and wears an artificially bloodstained dress. Magic's blond hair is tied up, but some of it hangs off to the side. She wears a red sweater, a navy blue polka dot dress with purple tights underneath, and she has a pair of turquoise glasses that look like something a librarian from the 1950s would wear. This is the third time she has performed on the bus. "[The bus] feels like it is ours," she says, her assortment of bracelets clinking and clanking together as she moves her hands for emphasis. "It doesn't feel like some fucks are making money off of it somewhere. You pass a hat along and give gas money to the touring band. It's not about making money or being seen."

How much did the bus make that night? Eleven dollars. The proceeds went to booze.
Performing on the bus can be an extraordinary experience for bands not expecting a big paycheck, but the small donations periodically requested come at a price for Benson. On one occasion, Benson says bus patrons excitedly reported making fifty dollars in a single night; they gave all the proceeds to the touring band. But they also had bad news: not only did a speaker blow out during a performance, but the bus was ticketed for remaining parked during street-cleaning hours. Both the speaker and the ticket costs came out of Benson's pocket.

The bus comes at a hefty price for Benson, but he loves what he does because of the happiness that it brings others, including Magic, who would not mind if more people knew about the bus, though she knows that it does not have the capacity to house many people. In Chen's opinion, outsiders looking in experience mixed reactions to the bus. Some might see the bus as a means to connect with a community, while others see the bus as an excuse to party. "Both ideas are valid," responds Chen, "but I think the bus is a blank slate that people project their ideas onto."
Despite the direct promotion the bus receives online, Chen does not fear the bus will gain commercial success. Why? Because of the music it attracts. "The music is kind of obscure," he says. "If people don't get involved in the music part of it, it's only a one-time thing...unless they are personally involved with the people in it."

The night slowly winds down. More people file out of the bus while some stick around for conversation and beer drinking. Brandon Walls Olsen stands outside the bus, his tan jacket zipped up to his chin. He wears skinny black jeans and large glasses with black plastic frames. He is impressed that the bus operates outside the system. Though he did not get involved with the bus until recently, Olsen knew people directly involved with it. "Coming to a show on this bus requires no expectations," says Olsen, clutching a tall can of Red Stripe in his right hand. "I can sit there and do nothing, I can dance like crazy, or I can walk away. Nobody's going to care." Olsen says the bus' scene could easily be ignored or overlooked unless you have some kind of "in" to it. In his opinion, the bus is about people wanting to perform their music, and other people wanting to watch those performances.

Magic agrees. She enjoys the feeling of putting on a good show for her audience and she loves to show support for her friends and other touring bands, which she always gives donations to. "We're not doing this to make money. "We're doing this because it is something that is really important to us as a catharsis and a creative outlet," she says. "The people I see at shows are not people I see at other places," expresses Olsen as a bearded man hoots and lets off a loud belch inside the bus. "See what I mean?" he says with a chuckle. He finishes his beer and heads home.

Benson still sits patiently in front of the café. He talks about the bus and what it does for the community. "Any place where people can get off their computers and talk one-on-one with each other is going to be beneficial and that's something that doesn't pass me by," Benson says. "It's definitely worth all of the agony just to see people meeting each other, talking, sharing their art, and being able to have the excuse to hang out." He wants people to see more than a massive music venue when they feast their eyes on the bus. He wants people to see that they too can create something out of nothing. From the PA system, to the word-of-mouth shows, to the recycled veggie oil fuel, the bus proves to be something anyone could do.

It is getting cold out and Benson is ready to call it a day. The bus to him is a "false utopia," a place where people hang out, drink, listen to music, sleep, and have a great time. They come in curious and leave with a smile on their face. Behind the scenes, there is a man, a "work horse," who fishes for recycled vegetable oil, operates the bus, pays for damages, and spends countless hours vacuuming confetti off the bus floor after a show.

"In reality, the bus is a huge time and money commitment," says Benson, briefly pausing, "but I let people use it and I get a lot out of that. And I keep doing it, but I'm not going to ever say I'm going to keep doing it five years from now," he pauses again. "Something else might fall into my lap." He finishes his sandwich, gets up from his seat, and he walks back to his truck. [X]